Interstice
by Apheliongirl
Summary: In between capers, Joker needs a diversion.


Interstice: Part One: New Toys

#

_Interstice_: n. a gap or break in something continuous, a short space of time between events.

#

The calm before the storm – the time between decision and execution, when every muscle, every nerve, every ounce of adrenaline is flowing and you just wait for something to happen.

Any soldier who's seen combat can attest that the time spent waiting for the firefight to begin is excruciating when you're primed and ready for action.

Joker feels that way today, operating on a few hours sleep, his nerves on edge, his mind running a mile a minute, senses so hyper-alert despite fatigue that he feels as if he might explode if he doesn't get some kind of release. It doesn't even necessarily have to be sexual – but it has to be physical. Violence, sex, drugs.

_Something_.

As he waits for the clock to tick down, one of his clowns drives him along the mean streets of Gotham's Narrows. Sitting in the passenger seat, he glances out at the passing scenery, his gaze travelling over the people who make their way through the city's crime-riddled district that Gotham PD abandoned over a decade ago. He doesn't know what he's searching for. He only knows he has to find something, some diversion – some _distraction_ – to keep him from going mad with anticipation - or killing out of sheer disgust the simple-minded droogs who make up his little organization.

The Narrows looms over the van, its tall smog-blackened buildings like gothic canyons on either side of the pock-marked street. Junkies and drug dealers patrol the sidewalks, making connections, exchanging packages. Pimps man their posts; their stooped forms lurking in darkened doorways like vulture priests presiding over the dying. Prostitutes dressed in ridiculously revealing costumes stroll, pose, and peer inside darkened car interiors at Johns in search of a good time. Pickpockets ghost between unwitting victims, nimble fingers retrieving wallets as their former possessors wander unknowing.

No one walking these streets and alleyways is innocent – all have fallen into crime and misdemeanour, whether their speciality is drugs or theft or graft or prostitution. Underlying it all – violence. Joker feels it – a barely-suppressed force beneath the surface like maggots writhing under the skin of a blowfly-ridden corpse bursting at the seams.

Not his kind of people. Not his kind of place – _not really_. He's here because the Narrows is a target-rich environment. He'll find _something _here. Something to slake his thirst for action.

The van turns off the major thoroughfare, and enters the seediest area of the Narrows – a place where the lowest of the prostitutes work, their frail forms haunting the bridge like spectres of their former selves. Drug addicts all, nearing the end of their useful working life due to age or addiction. "The Dump" it is called by those who know the area – the last refuge of dead-women walking.

That's where he sees _her _– the girl from the bank.

The sun is just setting and she stands shivering beside a lamppost, long dark hair, pale face, a white faux-fur bomber jacket offering little warmth over a short jean skirt just below her crotch and thigh-high black boots with three-inch heels. Her knees knock together as she stands and surveys the passing cars, her breath coming in short puffs, visible in the chill air.

She's far too young to be here already.

He knows she'll be hurting. She'll be sick with need, trying to work enough to get a couple hundred for the fix of heroin or crack that will get her through the night.

"_Her_," he says to the driver. "I want her. The one in the white fur."

The driver points to a tall man dressed in black leather standing at the end of the bridge. "That's the pimp – calls himself 'The Tsar'. He runs all these girls. You gotta clear it with him."

"You do the negotiating. Ask him how much to buy her for a week. Maybe two. Do ya think you're up to it?"

The driver shrugs. "That'll cost you plenty. Girl like this'll net him a few thou a week."

Joker picks up a wad of hundreds from the duffel bag he brought along and throws it at the driver. "Five grand. That should do."

Joker leaves the passenger seat and crouches behind a box filled with electronic components needed for the operation. He has his war paint on and doesn't want to alarm the girl or the pimp. He listens as the driver speaks to the pimp, offering him the money, and waiting as the man shambles over to the girl, directing her to the van.

She hobbles over on unsteady legs and gets inside, sitting on the passenger seat, her gaze moving over the driver as if trying to divine if he's going to be a good or bad date. Once she closes her door, the driver pulls away.

"Stefan says you want me for at least a week," the girl says, her voice tiny. "I need a hit _now_ or I won't be good for nothing. And I need some for my boyfriend or he'll die."

"_Anything_," Joker says, grabbing her arm and pulling her into the back where she sprawls at his knees. "Won't be good for _anything_." He holds her down, pinning her beneath him, his hands holding hers above her head. "That's a double negative. Didn't you learn grammar in _school_?"

The back of the van is dark and he can tell she can't see his face. "Turn on the overhead light."

The driver complies and the light blinks on. The girl gasps when she sees his paint, closing her eyes and turning her head away.

"_Yes_," he says, pleased at her response. "Good girl. You _remember_."

"_Please," _she says, her voice hitching._ "_Please don't _hurt_ me."

"Oh, I'm not going to _hurt_ you." He leans down and sniffs her neck. Not _too_ ripe, but still, not to his liking. "I didn't the other day. Why would I _now_?"

She turns her head back and opens her eyes. The same big brown eyes he remembers from the bank heist. Overly large, like those ridiculous paintings of big-eyed children so popular among the kitsch collectors at flea markets and garage sales in the neighbourhood of his youth. Rimmed by black eyeliner. Caked mascara. Dark circles from illness, drugs, or some combination of the two.

"What do you want?"

"What do I _want_?" He lets go of her hands and sits up, his knees straddling her, cocking his head to the side as he surveys her body. "What _do_ I want? I don't really _know_ what I want. I want _something_." He opens her jacket to reveal a thin black camisole covering up breasts just big enough to fit in his cupped palms. The cold air sends a shiver through her and her nipples harden. He feels a small surge of desire, feels his body prime, his cock thicken slightly. "How many guys have you blown already?"

"Tonight or all day?"

"All day."

She shrugs. Her eyes wander for a moment. "Eight. Maybe ten." She glances back at him. "I don't remember."

"Did you fuck any of them?"

"No. Usually during the day they just want a quick blowjob."

"Have you fucked anyone today?"

"Just Stefan."

"Do you make them wear condoms?"

She laughs ruefully. "Yeah, _right_. I _make_ them wear a condom. And brush their teeth and use deodorant."

"Seriously. Did you use one with Stefan?"

"No." She closes those huge eyes. "Most Johns do. Not all. Some pay extra not to."

"And you don't _make_ them because . . . ?"

"Because I need the money."

"You need the money because . . . ?"

"I need the drugs."

He nods. The story is so familiar. "Have you been tested recently?"

"I was negative last year. But I haven't been tested since I hit," she says, looking away, shrugging one shoulder. "The _big_ time."

She pretends not to care but there's still a part of her that knows she's dead, even if only unconsciously. He shakes his head and sighs, enjoying her paltry attempt to deceive him – and herself.

He wants to fuck her but not with a condom and not if she's infected. "How old are you?"

She opens her eyes once more. "Eighteen."

"I asked how _old_ are you?"

"Eighteen. My birthday was in July."

"And you've been on the streets for . . . ?"

"Six years. Since I ran away from home."

He takes her arm in his hand and examines the needle track marks. Some are fresh. Some are old. "What do you do? Smack?"

"Speedball. Smack alone makes me nod. Gotta stay awake on the street."

"If you had your choice? If you didn't have to work tonight, what would you do if you had the money?"

Her eyes widen. "Heroin. I'm so fucking _tired _of everything."

"Heroin it is." He gets up and sits back in the passenger seat. "Jeeves, let's go find us some heroin for the little lady." He turns to her. "What's your name?"

She sits up and adjusts her jacket, wipes a tear from her cheek. "Mouse."

"No, no, _no_" he says, shaking his head. "I mean your _real_ name."

"What do _you_ care?"

"I'll be keeping you alive for the next week or so. I want to know your real name."

She looks away, raises a shoulder as if she doesn't care, but he can tell she does – that it hurts to remember who she used to be, however bad it was. Joker _likes_ the hurt. He's drawn to it like a scab you can't help but pick at, causing it to bleed.

Pain uncovers truth. It _reveals_.

"Anastasia," she says and looks at him, her chin out, her face defiant as if expecting him to laugh.

"Ana_stasia_." He rolls his head, cricks his neck. "Russian?"

She shakes her head. "No. Stupid fuck of a mom. Liked the movie. Used to call me her little _prin_cess."

"What happened to her?"

A brief flash of pain crosses her face. Just a hint of sadness. A shadow that passes as quickly as it arrived. "Why did anything have to _happen_ to her?"

"You ran away."

She sits silent for a moment, sullen. "Her fucking boyfriend beat her up too much."

"And you _too_."

"Yeah, and me too." She looks at him. "That and more. What are you – a fucking counsellor?"

"Do I _look_ like a counsellor?"

She glances away, out through the darkened window. "You're _The_ _Joker_. From the bank. I saw a news report that said you robbed that mob bank."

"What were you doing there anyway?" He's truly curious.

"Stefan had me do the bank deposit."

He laughs at the image. A street whore doing a deposit for a pimp at a mob bank.

He loves Gotham.

"He can trust you, then."

"He gives me and Cam extra drugs if we run errands for him."

"And Cam is your - _boyfriend_? The one who'll die if he doesn't get any drugs?"

She shrugs. "He's not my boyfriend. Just a boy I share a flop with. Hustler who works the Gulch. Cross-dresser."

_Cross-dresser._

Then Joker gets a flash of inspiration. The driver gets back in with a small package of dope. "Take us to the Gulch," he says, rubbing his hands together. "We're checking out another _toy_."

Anastasia's already huge eyes widen at that. Joker feels glee build inside of him. It's _brilliant_. A pair of toys to keep him company during the operation – to drain off the excess energy when he's in between actions. When he's bored with one, he can turn to the other. Maybe do both at once.

Just need to wash them up, dose them up, give them a good feed and a long sleep.

New toys. Well, maybe not _so_ new, not so _shiny_, but something to play with.

Joker _feels_ like playing.

#

Cam is a narrow-faced pretty gothboy, with sensuous lips, long black poker-straight hair, pale skin and blue eyes that are so pale, they look almost clear. His build is lean but defined and he's wearing a low-cut black dress with high-heeled boots and over top, a bright red rain slicker that matches his lipstick. His skin is smooth, he's wearing drop earrings in his ears and looks like a fine-boned man in drag rather than a masculine woman. He services men who want to do drag queens, not unsuspecting heteros who think they're getting a woman.

All in all, he's prettier than Anastasia. The trade is sometimes easier on male prostitutes than female.

_Sometimes_.

Joker doesn't mind drag queens – they can be quite enthusiastic. They try _real_ hard.

The van stops at the curb where Cam is standing, and the door slides open. When Cam sees Anastasia, he smiles and saunters over. "Hey, _darlin_," he says, his voice soft and high, lilting. "What's up with you?"

"Get in," she says. "Got us a _serious_ sugar daddy. Wants us both for a week. Maybe two." Anastasia holds up a wad of hundred-dollar bills and the packet of heroin.

Another five grand. Joker doesn't care. It's not _his_ money.

"Oooh, babygirl," Cam says and hops in, sliding the door shut. "We're going to party!"

The automatic lock clicks but Cam is too taken with the money to notice. He sits on the floor of the van, long legs crossed, holding the wad of money and the bag of smack, not even interested in who he'll be doing for the next week of his life. The money and Anastasia's apparent enthusiasm are enough to win him over. Finally, he glances up at the driver and his eyes move over Anastasia's face. Joker knows he finally sees her, sees the red nose, the almost-dried tears in her eyes.

Joker leans closer to her, his chin resting on her shoulder. "_Hi_," he says, grinning at Cam like the Cheshire Cat. He absolutely _loves_ the look of shock on Cam's face when he notices Joker's war paint.

He's obviously seen the news.

"Oh, my _God_." Cam drops the money in dismay. "Are we being _kidnapped_?"

"No, no, _no_," Joker says. "I just want some company."

"Are you OK babydoll?" Cam reaches out to touch Anastasia, squeezing her arm.

She sniffs and wipes an eye. "Yeah," she says. "Just a bit, you know, scared because of _who_ he is. But look at this." She picks up the wad of money.

"You're not, like, into _pain_ or anything are you?" Cam asks, examining the bag of dope. "Cause if you are, we've had enough for a lifetime. You can _keep_ your money and drop us off right here."

Joker smiles to himself. He likes the little show of backbone on Cam's part. He likes Cam. A _lot_. "Well, I'm not _vanilla_, but I'm not into pain, if that's your worry – at least not unless you want it. Just a few personal kinks. Nothing gory."

Cam looks Joker over and then turns to Anastasia. "You OK with this, Stasi?" He leans over and looks in Anastasia's eyes. "Cause if you're not, we can go."

_Stasi_. So that's what her friends call her. Stasi.

She nods, and turns to Joker, her big brown eyes liquid, her voice so soft he can barely hear it. "Will you let us leave later if we say no?" She wipes her cheek again. "How do we know you won't keep us against our will once we get to your loft?"

_Stasi_. Joker _likes_ it. Joker likes _her_ – especially her vulnerability. He knows he can get a _lot_ out of her – a lot of emotion, a high degree of response. She hasn't yet built up a solid wall between the world and her emotions despite all the pain.

Whatever walls she _has_ built up, he intends to tear down.

Joker feels a little glitch in his breathing as he contemplates it. He motions to the driver, who stops at the curb. The doors unlock. "Leave now. Be my guest."

Stasi looks at the money and bag of heroin. Joker knows she's too tempted to turn the deal down.

"If you're OK," she says to Cam. "It would be so _nice_ not to have to work."

"Oh, you'll be working," Joker says. "For _me_. On _me_."

She glances over him, as if wondering if she can do him. "Are you going to wear that makeup?"

He shrugs. "Sometimes. Depends. After action, yeah. In between, no."

Cam flips through the cash. "This'll buy a lot of food and drugs." He looks up at Joker. "What are your terms?"

"You have the run of my loft. Lots of food, drugs, clean sheets, clothes. You have to wash her up, both of you get tested tomorrow, and be available for whenever I feel like it. I'm going to be very busy in the next few weeks, but I do have some downtime. My nerves can get on edge and so I want a little bit of fun to pass the time."

"You like _both_ women and men?"

"Let's just say I'm an equal opportunity pervert." Joker smiles, his eyes narrow. "A mouth is a mouth, a hole is a hole. You both show the right amount of enthusiasm, play my little games with me, and there'll be another wad like that at the end."

A glance passes between the two of them, Cam and Stasi. It's so fucking cute Joker can hardly stand it.

"So Cameron, what's your specialty?" Joker asks.

"It's Camp_bell_," Cam says. "My mom's Scottish." Campbell poses, tilting his head, giving Joker a come-hither look. "And oh, baby, I could suck the chrome off a tail pipe."

Joker feels himself respond to the bravado, to the image of that mouth on him. "First of all, don't call me baby," Joker says, deciding that now is as good a time as any to lay down the rules. "I'm a former army officer with combat experience. _You_ refer to me as _Sir_. You don't look me in the eye unless I order you to and then you don't look away until I order you to."

Campbell pulls a face briefly, considering, his eyes off to the side as he decides. The he turns back, licks his shapely painted red lips and mimes a salute. "Yes, 'Sir'," he breathes. "Whatever you say, Sir."

Oh, yeah. Joker's going to _enjoy_ Campbell.

"What about _me_?" Stasi asks. "What do _I_ call you?"

Joker considers. What will cause the most . . . discomfort? He thinks maybe 'Father' but that's too perverted even for him. He hated _his_ father. Maybe 'Brother' but unless you have one, it sounds fraternal rather than kinky. Besides, he has one and it would be him who is uncomfortable rather than her.

"You?" He smiles. "You can call me _'My Love'_." Joker knows that even if she doesn't feel it, if she says it enough, her ears will hear it, her brain will register it, and somewhere in the depths of her unconscious mind, she will begin to believe it. He will no longer be just a John fucking her, but her lover. He will know the moment when that little mind-fuck kicks in and he will love it. "And you _always_ keep your eyes one me," he adds. "Don't you ever look away. I want you to anticipate my every need. Understand?"

She swallows. "Yes," she lifts a shoulder in what he recognizes is her trademark gesture, actually blushes at having to use the words with a John. "_My love_."

_Oh_, yes. Lovely little _toys_.

#

They arrive back at the warehouse and Joker leads the two of them up the stairs to his third-floor apartment. He throws open the huge double doors to reveal the space and ushers them in with a wave of his arms. "Come in, come in, my little toys. Welcome to the _playhouse_."

They enter and are awed by the opulence of the apartment. It belonged to an architect married to an interior designer and has all these interesting lines and shapes, colors and decorations. Joker doesn't really care. It was ready-made and that was all that mattered at the time.

He imagines it is far beyond anything either of them have ever seen. He almost giggles at the sight of them as they ooh and ahh at the richness of the furniture.

"First order of business," he says and takes one of their hands in each of his, pulling them to the huge en-suite bathroom with a Jacuzzi tub and wall-to-wall windows. "The first order of business is to clean you both up and get you fed and _flying_." He lets their hands go and watches Campbell who walks around the bathroom, trailing his fingers over the rich dark marble countertops. "Campbell," he says, putting his arm around the young man's shoulders, letting his hand slip down his back. "I'll put you in charge of getting you and _Stasi_ all nice and clean. You'll find everything you need in the cupboards."

"Yes, _Sir_," Campbell says, making a point of looking away from Joker, trying to suppress a saucy grin. Joker can't help but squeeze his ass playfully. He'd like to kiss those painted lips, but doesn't really want to until the boy is a _lot_ cleaner.

Campbell will be the leader, the point-man, the one who will hold Stasi up for Joker, make sure she's ready for him. He fancies himself a tough cookie to her tenderness, Campbell does, with a thick crust that can't be penetrated, who will protect Stasi from harm. Street smart, competent despite the obvious fuck-up of his life.

Joker will enjoy pointing out the error in Campbell's view of himself. He knows that inside that façade of street-smarts lies a soft interior. _That's_ what Joker wants to reveal.

Stasi is standing beside the tub, watching him intently like a good girl. He _likes_ the feel of her eyes on him. Her constant vigilance, watching his every move, every gesture, every word, will be _very_ exciting.

He turns, waits at the closed bathroom door. Stasi finally remembers and realizes what he's waiting for. She rushes to open it for him, her big brown eyes wide and on his face, hoping she hasn't blown it already. He strokes her cheek, smiles and then goes to his office, checking his messages before pouring a stiff drink of scotch.

#

When he returns to the tub, the two of them are inside with hot water and bubbles up to their necks. Joker stands beside the tub and swirls his scotch while checking out their bodies in the water. Campbell avoids his gaze while Stasi holds it, her cheeks red.

He turns to Campbell and runs his hand down the long dark hair. It's wet and clean, squeaking between his finger and thumb. Joker imagines it trailing over his body while Campbell runs his tongue over Joker's skin. He takes hold of Campbell's chin and looks his face over. "You can get out now," Joker says, enjoying Campbell's efforts to avoid his gaze. He runs his thumb over Campbell's pouty bottom lip. "There's some new toothbrushes in the drawer in the vanity. Brush your teeth. When you're done, dry off and go wait in the bedroom."

Campbell stands and Joker gets to admire his lean build. His circumcised cock of average length is just a bit hard in anticipation of what's coming. His pubes are shaved. Joker feels his own cock pulse in response to the image.

He turns to Stasi, who is, of course, eyeing him intently. Joker puts his glass down and rolls up his sleeves, takes the bar of soap, lathering up his hands. "Stand up," he commands. Stasi complies and Joker stands as well, then starts to soap her body, starting at her shoulders and working down, his hands trailing softly over her breasts and down over her belly. He holds her gaze as he does. Her face flushes in response when he tweaks her nipples.

Joker knows this is far too intimate for her – she's used to giving blow jobs while hunched over anonymous laps in parked cars or spreading her legs while nameless Johns bang away, her eyes closed, emitting fake groans while the customer thrusts. Having to look in his eyes as he touches her so gently, as he strokes her breasts and then slips soapy fingers between the lips of her sex is too much.

He knows that, eventually, she will be unable to stop her own response. Prostitutes do _not_ want to respond to their clients. They want to shut them out, turn them off, go to anther space in their mind to escape the unwanted intimacy. Joker is forcing a response on her. He's loving how she's fighting it, how uncomfortable her own response is for her.

She can't fake it because it feels too real. But she's a junkie and junkies are notorious for taking forever to come. All the receptors for endorphins in her brain have been used up by heroin. He might be able to make her orgasm if he spent enough time, but he'll wait until she's tested and is clean. Until he's broken down a few more of her barriers.

The discomfort she's feeling at responding _at all_ to him will have to do for now.

"How's it feel when I touch you?"

She's at a loss for words, her breathing shallow, her large eyes so expressive. He knows she's struggling to decide what to say in response – should she admit it feels upsetting but arousing? Should she fake it and go all "Ooh baby it feels so good!" like a good little prostitute? Somehow, she knows that would be wrong with him.

Good.

Her unease - her confusion - means she's starting to understand him and what he wants.

"You can tell me," he says. "Tell me the truth. I don't like lies. How does it make you feel when I touch you like this?"

He's testing her and she knows it - she's afraid of being wrong.

"It feels . . . " she says and shakes her head. "I don't like it. It makes me feel . . ." She lifts a shoulder. "_Violated_."

He smiles. _Exactly_. She passed the test. "You forgot something. Tell me again, but _properly_."

Her breath catches when she realizes what she's done. "Oh." She touches her forehead. "I'm sorry. It makes me feel violated," she says and swallows, "_my love_."

"Poor Stasi," he croons, his soapy hands slipping behind her, sliding down her back to her buttocks, one finger slipping between her cheeks, his face just a few inches from hers, his eyes level with hers. "Violated by a John? What else do you do all day but fuck strange men?"

"We don't do _this_."

"We don't do this – _what_?"

She closes her eyes briefly and inhales. "We don't do this, my love."

"No," he says. "No, you don't." He takes a pitcher from beside the tub and rinses her off. She looks quite delicious, all clean, all wet, the film of soap sliding down her naked skin, her nipples hard, gooseflesh on her torso and arms. He hopes she comes back negative because he _really_ wants to fuck her bareback.

"Dry off and go to Campbell. I'll be in later."

She steps out of the tub and takes a large fluffy towel from the rack, leaving him alone in the bathroom. Joker goes to the vanity and stares at his image in the mirror as he considers what he'll do with them. First, he'll shoot them both up, set them flying and then they can get him off with their hands, each taking turns, the one who is last to hold him while he comes will get an extra fix but he won't tell them that until he does.

He opens a drawer and pulls out his makeup, daubing on a bit more white greasepaint where it's faded, adding a touch more kohl around his eyes, painting his lips and grin with a bit more red.

He wants them to be sure to know who they're jerking off.

The Joker.

* * *

My original novel loosely based on Maelstrom is now available at under the title of DOMINION by S. E. Lund. You can read an excerpt at Amazon.


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